And then there came a cry and tumult from behind, and through the door of the dining-room, which stood wide open, making it a part of the scene, there suddenly appeared another group of whirling struggling figures, steadily pushing back before them the two fugitives, who had crept their way out, only to be met and overpowered, and brought back to answer as they could for themselves. Then, and only then, Mrs Ogilvy’s strength failed her. The light for a moment went out of her eyes. All that she had done had been in vain, in vain.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The two men stood with the background of dark figures behind, while the inspector who was at the head of the party advanced towards them. Robbie, with his long beard and his cloak over his shoulder, was the one upon whom all eyes were fixed. One of the policemen held him firm by the arm. His countenance was dark, his air sullen, like a wild beast taken in the toils. The other by his side, almost spruce in his loose coat, his clean-shaven face seeking no shadow, facing the enemy with a half-smile upon it, easy, careless, fearing no evil—produced an effect quite contrary to that which the dark and bearded brigand made upon the officers of the law. Who could doubt that it was he who was the son of the house, “led away” by the truculent ruffian by his side? There was no mention of Robbie’s name in the warrant. And the sight of Robbie’s mother, and her defence of her threshold, had touched the hearts even of the police. To take away this ruffian, to leave her her son in peace, poor old lady, relieving her poor little quiet house of the horror that had stolen into it—the inspector certainly felt that he would be doing a good service to his neighbour as well as obeying the orders of the law.
“The one with the beard,” he said, looking at a paper which he held in his hand—“that is him. Secure him, Green. Stand by, men; be on your guard; he knows what he’s about—— ah!” The inspector breathed more freely when the handcuffs clicked on Robert Ogilvy’s wrists, who for his part neither resisted nor answered, but stood looking almost stupidly at the scene, and then down upon his hands when they were secured. The other by his side put up a hand to his face, as if overwhelmed by the catastrophe, and fell a little backward, overcome it seemed with distress—as Robbie ought to have done, had this and not the ruffian in the beard been he.
Mrs Ogilvy had been leaning on Susie’s shoulder, incapable of more, her heart almost ceasing to beat, all her strength gone; but when the words, “the one with the beard,” reached dully and slowly to her comprehension, she made but one bound, pushing with both arms every one away from her, and with a shriek appeared in the midst of the group. “It is my son,” she cried, “my son, my son! It is Robbie Ogilvy and no one else. It is my son, my son, my son!” She flung herself upon him, raving as if she had suddenly gone mad in her misery, and tried to pluck off with her weak hands the iron bands from his wrists. Her cries rang out, silencing every other sound. “It is my son, my son, my son!—--”
“I am very sorry, madam; it may be your son, and still it may be the man we want,” the inspector said.
And then another shrill woman’s voice burst forth from behind. “You fools, he’s escaping! Don’t you see?”—the speaker clapped her hands with a sound that rang over their heads. “Don’t you see! It’s easy to take off a beard. If you waste another moment, he’ll be gone!”
He had almost got beyond the last of the men, retreating very softly backwards, while all the attention was concentrated upon Robbie and his mother. But he allowed himself to be pushed forward again at the sound of this voice, as if he had had no such intention. A snarl like that of a furious dog curled up his lip at the side for a moment; but he did not change his aspect—the game was not yet lost.
“There are folk here,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, still plucking at the handcuffs, while Robbie stood silent, saying nothing—“there are folk here who have known him from his cradle, that will tell you he’s Robert Ogilvy: there are my servants—there is the minister, here present God knows why or wherefore: they know—he’s been absent from his home many a day; but he’s Robert Ogilvy: no the other. If he’s Robert Ogilvy he is not the other: if he’s my son he’s not that man. And he is my son, my son, my son! I swear it to you—and the minister. Mr Logan, tell them——”
Mr Logan’s mind was much disturbed. He felt that providence itself had sent him here; but he was slow to make up his mind what to say. He wanted time to speak and to explain. “I have every reason to think that is Robert Ogilvy,” he said; “but I never saw him with a beard; and what he may have been doing all these years——”